


Helping Hands

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drunkenness, Gen, possibly unwarranted optimism regarding grantaire's character, revolutionary parallels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's two favorite disdainful blonds help him get home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> from a suggestion from [bobbiewickham!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham)

It must be said, Enjolras was not a people-watcher. The rowdy tenor of the streets of the Latin Quarter as he walked home late one winter evening was no more interesting to him than the studious bustle of midday. However, one thing did draw his attention, suddenly and sharply, to the doorway of a wine shop he had only just passed— a name, spoken with beseeching irritation— the tone, indeed, in which he was most accustomed to hearing it said.

“Oh, Grantaire, _try_ at least, won’t you?” 

Enjolras hesitated, then turned back to approach the doorway. There, indeed, was Grantaire, hanging on the doorframe in a state of profound intoxication, swaying even where he stood— or rather, leaned. The speaker, a blonde grisette, seemed to be attempting to coax him out into the street. Even Enjolras could see, however, that any hope she had of Grantaire making it home under his own power was quite in vain. 

“Mademoiselle?” he said. 

She looked up, startled. “Oh— Monsieur Enjolras, isn’t it?” 

“Enjolras!” Grantaire cried. 

It was Enjolras’s turn to look surprised. “Yes— have we met?”

“I know some of your friends,” she said. “Including this one. I’m Irma.” 

Grantaire was slurring out a string of classical references that were, perhaps fortunately, almost entirely unintelligible. 

“I would just leave him here,” Irma went on. “But in this weather, I’d worry he’d just lie here and freeze to death.” 

Irma sounded more annoyed than worried, but even Enjolras could sense some hint of concern in the crease of her brow. 

“Come. Between us we can surely help him along.” For though she was shorter than Enjolras, Irma seemed tall and sturdy enough to bear part of Grantaire’s weight. Enjolras straightened his hat and stepped up to Grantaire’s side. “Come, Grantaire, can you put your arm around my shoulder?”

“Can I!” Grantaire cried. “Why, do I dare?” 

“You’d best dare,” Irma said waspishly. “Or else I really will leave you here to freeze.” 

With a relative minimum of stumbling and, given the parties involved in the heavy lifting, an unsurprising lack of swearing, they managed to get Grantaire slung between them, an arm around each of their shoulders, each of them with one arm around his waist, propelling him along.

Grantaire let his hand slide down Irma’s shoulder, angling for a breast, and she gave the back of his hand a savage pinch. 

“I am surrounded by cruelty,” Grantaire said. “Borne up by disdain!”

Irma rolled her eyes. “Cruelty? I could have left you in the snow. Disdain, well, I can’t speak for that.” 

Enjolras, as a rule, did not trouble himself with his friends’ myriad romantic entanglements. But he felt he had to make some conversation, if only to forestall further drunken lamentations from Grantaire— or at least, to drown them out. 

“You and he are not…?”

“No,” Irma said shortly. “You’re friends with Courfeyrac, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras said, surprised. “Are you?”

“Just friends,” Irma said. “He’s lent me books from time to time.” 

“A latter day de Mericourt, is Irma,” Grantaire supplies. “Shall you lead the mistresses of the ABC in a march, good Boissy? Shall you run mad?”

“You will drive me mad,” Irma replied. “I can’t speak for the rest.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, “Théroigne de Mericourt did not really lead the march on Versailles, and never claimed to have done so. It was all invention, some… fanciful, fictional Théroigne, the invention of pamphleteers, nothing at all to do with the woman herself.”

“Now, what on earth must that be like,” Irma said. 

“Do you accuse me, fair Boissy?” Grantaire said. “Why, I am an artist! I must have my pedestals.” 

“You’re a painter, if we’re to be very generous indeed with that word,” Irma replied. “Pedestals are for people who build things.” 

“So lofty! Why, even Enjolras here has built nothing,” Grantaire says. “He only dreams of it. And you only build boots.” 

“I take it back,” Irma said, looking to Enjolras and tossing her head to flick a blond curl out of her eyes. “We ought to have left him.” 

“This is his street, is it not?” Enjolras said in reply. “I can manage the rest of the way myself, if you wish to go.”

“No, no,” Irma said. “I know where he hides the key. It’s only a few minutes more— and only the second story, praise God.” 

The porter seemed entirely unsurprised by the nature of his tenant’s arrival, and let all three in without comment. The stairs took some doing, but step by step they managed it. On the landing, Irma surrendered her half to stoop down in search of Grantaire’s hidden key; Grantaire seized the opportunity to drape both his arms around Enjolras’s neck and smash his face against Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras closed his eyes against the sudden and almost overwhelmingly strong whiff of wine and brandy, and said nothing. 

“Here we are.” Irma nudged the door open. “Ooh! It’s freezing in there. Bring him in, will you, and I’ll lay a fire.” 

Grantaire seemed entirely unwilling to provide any assistance in this effort, so Enjolras was forced to awkwardly shuffle inside, half-dragging Grantaire after him. He’d never been inside Grantaire’s flat before: though only a single room, it was large. Spartan in the way of actual furnishings, but horribly cluttered with all manner of clothes, bottles, papers, books, and even the odd canvas. He hoisted Grantaire over to the bed.

“Do you need help with your boots?” he asked stiffly, but Grantaire waved him away. 

“Oh, we all know marble cannot bend so,” he replied. Enjolras pressed his lips thin and turned away to see if Irma needed help. Two thumps of boots being discarded, followed with remarkable rapidity by a loud, inebriated snore. 

“An undeniable benefit of drinking yourself to sleep,” Irma said, still prodding at the fire. “Out like a light.”

She straightened up and brushed off her hands. “Thank you for your help.” 

“May I escort you home?” Enjolras asked. He hoped— suspected, rather— that Irma would not take it other than as he meant it. And she didn’t: she smiled, faintly.

“You needn’t,” she said. “I’m no lady. I’ve walked by myself before.”

“He was very rude to you.” Enjolras offered his arm. “And it is late for anyone to be out alone.” 

“He’s rude to everyone,” she protested. But she brushed off her hands again and started for the door. “It’s only just down the street.” 

She carefully replaced the key where she’d found it, and as she turned to take Enjolras’s arm, he said, “You’re kind to him.” 

“Oh…” Irma shrugged. “Grantaire is impossible. Just at the moment you’re ready to give up on him entirely, he’ll do something more than kind in return.” 

“Will he.” Enjolras realized his skeptical tone was uncharitable, but given this latest display, he couldn’t muster much guilt over it. The porter didn’t look up as they passed. 

“Sooner or later,” Irma said. “You’ll see.”


End file.
